


algorithm

by Anney



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, alternate universe - simulation, except there are these weird little matchmaking simulator machines, technically it's still the F1 verse, there's a bit of Maxiel on the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anney/pseuds/Anney
Summary: Tired of all the internal team conflicts, the F1 powers-that-be have developed a simulation-based compatibility test for drivers and their teammates.orFive times Max doesn’t find the right partner and one time he does.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 28
Kudos: 137
Collections: Winterbreak Writing Challenge (2020)





	1. Five times Max doesn’t find the right partner…

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is fictional.
> 
> For scarletred’s Winterbreak Writing Challenge prompt: _**Brand new world.** Write something set in any AU of your choice, maximum freedom here. _
> 
> Technically it’s still set in the F1 verse, except there are these weird little matchmaking simulator machines.
> 
> Bear with me, I beg you.

**I.**

“This is the latest technology.”

Franz pats the smooth white surface of the simulation machine, the one that is supposed to determine whether Max and Carlos are compatible enough to work as teammates. It looks like the skeleton of a car—two seats enclosed in a metal chassis, not unlike one of those arcade driving games.

Max looks at the machine with sceptical curiosity.

“You sit in here and you’ll fall asleep, and then the simulation begins,” the Toro Rosso team principal explains to the two young drivers. “There’s no one else you can interact with, it’s just the two of you.

“Whatever scenario you end up in, it’s supposed to search your subconscious, see through your personalities and your ambitions. It will analyze your motivations, interactions, and overall chemistry to determine whether or not you are a good match—for the team’s interests and for each other.

“We won’t be able to see what you see or know what you do in the simulation. We will only know your final compatibility score.”

Franz gives the simulator one last affectionate pat.

“Any questions?”

Max gulps at the idea of a machine probing his inner thoughts. Carlos just shakes his head, looking completely out of depth.

“What does it feel like?” Max asks.

“Most people say they find themselves in familiar places,” Franz replies. “Or places they’ve seen before. There’s nothing you’re supposed to achieve, it’s just a ‘go with your gut’ thing.

“The simulation runs until the system can determine your score. Other drivers have reported that it can feel like a few minutes or like days, but in real time it will be exactly ten minutes.”

It sounds simple enough, if it weren’t for the utterly baffling nature of what they are doing. _How in the world do these machines even work?_

“Ready?” asks Franz as they take their seats in the simulator. “Good luck, boys. Let’s hope it’s a good one.”

Max feels lethargic the second Franz activates the machine; his eyes suddenly heavy-lidded.

“This feels so weird,” Carlos mumbles sleepily in the next seat.

Max closes his eyes, a dizzying sensation overtaking him. He feels a tugging deep below his navel like someone is twisting and pulling out his insides, and then it all stops.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in a ploughed field.

The golden, dried grass crackles under his feet. The ground beneath is fluffy, stretching out in a geometric pattern of long trenches that reach as far as his eyes can see. The yellow, flat land meets the bright blue sky in a sharp, straight line, warped only by the sinuous curve of a nearby hill with a lone tree on top.

“Where are we?” asks Max, looking at his teammate. He noticed that both of them are wearing their Toro Rosso race suits, already feeling uncomfortably hot under the scorching sun.

“I think we might be in Spain,” Carlos says slowly. “But it’s not—” He frowns. “I don’t think I’ve been here before.”

“Okay,” Max says wearily. He feels uneasy, a familiar fight-or-flight feeling settling in his stomach. “So, what do we do now?”

Carlos stares off into the distance, his feet already moving as he gazes at the horizon. “I think we’re supposed to climb that hill.”

It’s a short walk, but the hill is deceptively steep, and the effort leaves Max panting by the time they reach the top, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and itching under his fireproofs.

He seeks the shade of the lone tree. Now that he has a chance to look at it up close, he realizes it’s an olive tree. He runs a hand over the dull green foliage and marvels at the crisp feel in his palm. His fingers curl over the smooth surface of a green olive, ready to pull it out and taste it.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Carlos warns, and Max stops mid-pull. “It’s not meant to be eaten right off the tree. It will be the most bitter thing you’ve ever tasted.”

 _I hardly doubt it_ , Max thinks, still staring at the inconspicuous fruit. His hand slackens, and the branch snaps under the weight of his pull with an ominous crack. Carlos stares at the broken olive branch between their feet with a frown.

Before he can say anything, Max notices the small village hiding in the shadow of the hill. Its terracotta houses blend almost perfectly into the barren land, sparsely interrupted by the manicured green of a square garden or the rise of the church bell tower.

One building stands out from the others, so immaculately white that it almost blinds him. It is perfectly round, like an arena, with arabesque windows and bright yellow adornments. It seems to emit its own buzz, a low murmur echoing in the wind.

“What’s that?” He asks Carlos, who seems to be looking at the small village with increasing weariness.

“ _Plaza de toros_ ,” replies the Spaniard.

“Oh.” The sound grows louder, carried over by a gust of wind. It’s the sound of a crowd, Max realizes, as the undefined growl forms into a unison ‘ _Olé!’_. “That’s—”

“A bullring.”

 _Cruel_. That’s what Max was going to say, but the word dies in his mouth.

He feels completely mesmerized by the brightness of the building, standing out like a halo of light in the barren landscape.

“Shall we go and check it out?” Max asks.

“No!” yells Carlos, grabbing him by the arm. Max hadn’t even noticed that he had already started walking towards the village. “I think—” Carlos looks horrified, his face white as a sheet. “I think we should leave it alone.”

But the roar of the crowd calls upon Max, his legs carrying him downhill of their own accord.

“Max!” yells Carlos, running after him. “ _Joder_ , Max!”

“What?” He turns around, annoyed. _Can’t he feel the pull? Doesn’t he realize that’s exactly where they are supposed to be?_ “I thought this was your thing!” he snaps at Carlos.

“No, it fucking isn’t!” Carlos shouts indignantly. He’s shaking like a leaf. “I am my own person, you know. Just because it’s something my ancestors did doesn’t mean I have to follow—” He groans in frustration, taking a deep breath. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

But Max doesn’t care. The pull is too tempting to just walk away.

“Max,” Carlos sighs. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

Max’s whole body itches to move forward, but something holds him back, pulling with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs.

He blinks, and he’s back in Franz’s office, still strapped to the seat of the simulator machine.

“Welcome back boys,” Franz greets. “I hope that wasn’t too unpleasant.”

The simulator vibrates and churns out a piece of paper like an old-time fax machine.

Franz frowns.

“Well, I can’t say I wasn’t hoping for better.”

Max keeps his face stone cold as he reads the bold letters of the report.

**_Compatibility score: 11.3%._ **

* * *

**II.**

Max feels strangely observed as Christian leads them through the proceedings with managerial efficiency.

He doesn’t feel the same thrilling curiosity as he did the first time he entered a simulation, but now that he’s had this experience before, Max feels even more nervous.

Daniel grins at him, that full-blown smile that makes everyone melt down at his feet. Max wishes he had Dan’s easygoingness, that he could make anyone fall in love with him with a single crack of a joke like the Australian does.

“Relax,” Daniel mouths at him, while Christian is still talking about algorithms and safety protocols. “It will be fun.”

And Max wonders if Daniel’s previous simulations were ever fun, because Max’s experience with Carlos was many things—unsettling and overwhelming, but definitely not fun.

They take their places in the machine, and Max closes his eyes as he feels the familiar tug behind his navel, as if every molecule in his body is being taken apart and roughly put together again.

He finds himself on a farm, surrounded by crop fields and green orchards. An old barn is the only building in sight.

“Oh, great,” Dan exclaims, hands on hips as he takes a deep breath. Max watches his chest inflate, filled with air.

“Australia?” he makes a wild guess.

“Yeah, bloody oath!” Dan beams at him for a moment before grabbing his hand unceremoniously. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

They follow a dirt road that runs through vineyards and cornfields. Conversation with Daniel comes easily; he makes a few jokes at Christian’s expense and they talk about racing and Red Bull and life in Monaco.

They take a detour through a barley field because Daniel thinks the horrified look on Max’s face is the funniest thing in the world. Daniel runs his hands over the crops, fluffing the spikes that reach his waist like he is petting a giant, yellow-furred beast. He looks even happier here, if that’s possible, carefree under the bright blue sky.

Max can’t see where his feet are going, and he shudders every time the vegetation tickles his bare calves. Why did he have to wear cargo shorts for this?

“There aren’t like giant venomous spiders here or anything like that, right?” he asks.

Dan stops abruptly, six feet ahead of Max.

“Well, now that you’ve thought about it, they might show up.”

“W-what?” Max walks faster to catch up with Daniel, moved by an anxious feeling in his chest. He grabs Daniel’s arm, unconsciously.

“Haven’t you realized that’s how it works?” Daniel asks, looking at him with undisguised curiosity.

“How what works?”

Dan gestures at the barley field surrounding them, with his arms outstretched.

“Simulations,” he explains. “They’re like a manifestation of what’s going through your head.”

Max stares at him as if he’s suddenly grown an extra head.

“Okay.” Dan puts both hands on his shoulders, vaguely patronizing. “It’s like a dream,” he explains. “You know how you tend to dream about things you’ve seen or thought about? Except sometimes your brain jumbles things up so it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s still kind of familiar?”

Max nods.

“It’s the same with simulations,” Dan continues. “Don’t ask me how that works, because the science behind it is pretty obscure, but basically, yeah. This is all inside our heads.” He pokes a finger into Max’s temple to make his point.

“So, for example, if you think too much about _giant, venomous spiders_ —” He grins. “—then maybe the little buggers might come out and say hello.”

He stares blankly into Daniel’s grinning face.

“You’re kidding, right?” Panic rises in his throat, his voice coming out in a little screech.

“Afraid not, mate.”

Max is suddenly hyper-aware of every brush against his legs, vividly imagining the hairy limbs climbing up- _oh shit_. Daniel tickles his sides, and he lets out a loud yelp.

“Not funny!” he squeals, tears welling up in his eyes. “Take me back to the road, right now.”

“All right, all right.”

Daniel is still laughing his head off when Max is suddenly swept off his feet and tossed carelessly over Dan’s shoulder.

“Oh my god. What are you doing?” he shrieks as Daniel starts to walk.

“I’m saving the damsel in distress before she throws a proper fit,” he says nonchalantly. “You can thank me later.”

“Put me down!”

Daniel stops dead in his tracks.

“Are you sure?”

Max tries to think through the rush of blood making its way into his head. He stares at the endless pool of barley below him, shuddering at the thought of all the creepy-crawlies that could be hiding in it. _Oh_ g _reat_! Now he’s thinking of even more repulsive creatures.

He holds onto the back of Daniel’s shirt.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought,” Daniel says cheerfully before resuming his walk, and Max resigns himself to the humiliation of being carried like a sack of potatoes, trying not to drown in a pool of his own embarrassment.

“I hate you so much,” he says as Daniel finally drops him to his feet on a grassy patch in the middle of an apple orchard. Max tries to hide his flushed face, busying himself with smoothing down his shirt that had pooled around his armpits while his torso hung upside down.

Daniel stares at him amused.

“Well. That’s a strange way of saying ‘thanks Daniel, for saving me from those mean spiders’.”

“Stop—” Max interrupts him, taking a deep breath. “—talking about _them_. For fuck’s sake.”

Daniel holds up his hands in surrender. He lets Max settle down, while he inspects the apple trees.

“It’s not all bad,” Daniel comments. “You can make food appear when you’re hungry, too.”

He grabs a red apple from the nearest tree and wipes its surface on the hem of his t-shirt.

“Besides,” he continues. “If you only think about good things, you can’t go wrong.”

“Is that what you do, then?” asks Max, “Think only good thoughts and hope for the best?”

Dan takes a bite of his apple, staring him up and down with an inscrutable look in his eyes.

“Mostly good thoughts, yeah.” He smirks.

Max feels his whole body heat up.

-

They stroll through the orchard for a while, just chatting. Max eventually agrees to lie down in the grass with Daniel, after examining it closely for signs of living creatures.

“You could at least conjure some blankets or something,” Max complains as dew seeps through his shirt. He won’t admit it, but it feels nice against his hot skin.

“It doesn’t work like that. It’s not magic,” Daniel replies. “Although it would be cool. _Yer a wizard, Danny_!” He does his worst Hagrid impression and laughs at his own joke.

Max can’t help but join in, rolling his eyes.

“You’re a dork.”

He watches the treetops rustle slightly in the light breeze and makes a game of dodging the rogue rays of sunlight that filter through the green dome.

“I like it here,” Max admits after a while, heat rising to his face. His heart races, and Max doesn’t quite know why it feels like such a bold admission. “I would have liked to grow up in a place like this, I think.”

Daniel exhales wistfully.

“Yeah, it was great.”

He closes his eyes, and Max studies the shadows shifting on his face.

“I’d actually missed this feeling. Just lying on the ground like that, when everything is wide open for miles, and all you can hear are the birds and the trees shaking in the wind.” Dan sighs. “It feels like freedom.”

Max hums, focusing on the sounds Daniel describes.

“There’s nothing like this in Monaco, is there?” Daniel adds, with a chuckle.

And that’s where Max disagrees. He understands what Daniel’s getting at, he does. Because he can feel the wind in his face and hear the birds chirping in the trees, but of course it all means a whole lot more to Daniel. It’s his home, whereas Monaco... Monaco is exactly what freedom feels like to Max.

“Would you move back to Australia if you had the chance?” he asks.

Daniel shakes his head.

“Nah. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place. I love it every time I come home, and I wouldn’t give that up for the world. But after a while, it can get…” Daniel trails off, his eyes going unfocused.

“…It can get too quiet. Kind of suffocating, you know what I mean? Like there’s all this space and nowhere to go at the same time.”

Max nods, though Daniel probably can’t see it.

“I knew, when I was a kid, that I would always want to leave,” Daniel says. “I get restless if I stay in one place too long.”

“Even if you’re happy there?” asks Max, intrigued.

“Especially if I’m happy there,” Daniel replies. “It never lasts. Happiness always fades after a while. To be honest, I’d rather leave before that happens.”

Max doesn’t comment on that; he lets the thought lie out in the open as they lounge in silence. But it sticks in his mind, and the more Max thinks about Daniel’s great life philosophy, the more it sounds like a coward’s way out.

-

They follow the edge of the ranch, and by the time they circle back to the old barn, the sun is already setting on the horizon.

“Do you think we need a place to stay for the night?” asks Max, as the first stars appear in the twilight sky. The thought of spending the night trapped in a simulation with Daniel sends a nervous tingle down his spine.

“I think we do,” Daniel says.

Max wonders how often simulations last longer than a day. He was aware of the possibility, of course, but he’d never thought about the logistics—the need for food or the need to sleep. It’s odd to think that in reality it’s still ten in the morning in Christian’s office, and Max has just had breakfast. Here, a whole day has passed, and it feels like he’s living on borrowed time.

“Have you ever spent a night in a simulation before?” he asks.

“Once,” Daniel answers quickly, leaving no room to say more on the subject. “I think we should check out the barn.”

The rusty iron bolt gives way reluctantly and the wide wooden doors open with a creak, releasing a musty smell of wet straw that hits their nostrils. The interior is dark and cold, much cooler than the summer night’s breeze that flows idly outside. It is empty, except for a pile of hay bales and flimsy blankets, that are obviously meant to serve as a bed.

Daniel complains loudly. “Why are these things never easy...”

Max wrinkles his nose in disgust at the sight of the musty hay.

“We’re supposed to sleep in this?!”

“I’m not too happy about it either, mate.”

Dan looks up, holding his hands around his mouth and yelling at no one in particular.

“Hey, send us a king-size bed and some silk sheets!”

Max holds his breath for a foolish second, but of course, nothing happens.

Daniel shrugs his shoulders.

“Worth a shot, eh?” He is already pushing a haystack toward the door. “C’mon, grab the blankets. I’ve got an idea.”

They push a few stacks outside, arranging them into a makeshift bed under the stars (well, Daniel does most of the work, while Max just hands him the blankets and stares dismally at the sleeping arrangements).

Daniel fluffs up the uneven surface, adding an extra blanket before seemingly being satisfied with his efforts. He flings himself carelessly into the lumpy mess.

Max watches as Daniel lies with his arms under his head, staring up at the night sky with a wide grin. Of course, Daniel is always smiling, but the way his face lights up under the stars is something else entirely. The lines on his forehead seem softer, the bare edges of his canines less sharp.

Daniel is handsome; Max would be blind not to see that. And yet he can’t put his finger on what makes him so attractive. He’s beautiful in all sorts of unconventional ways. Max’s eyes linger on the messy mop of curls, the crooked line of his nose, the coarse stubble that spreads from his cheeks down his neck. It’s the bright line of his smile, the unwavering confidence and the ever-amused glint in his eyes that exude his beautiful energy. Daniel soaks up the beauty of everything around him, seizes only the happiness and radiates it all back into the world.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” taunts Daniel, mistaking Max’s reverie for apprehension.

Max climbs hesitantly into the improvised bed, his heartbeat accelerating abruptly, warmth spreading through his chest in a way that makes him feel slightly queasy.

He tries to lie as far away from Daniel’s body as possible, cursing himself for not making the effort to grab a couple of extra stacks that might have given him a little more room to work with. Daniel doesn’t seem to notice Max’s struggle, or if he does, he certainly doesn’t help things by brushing his arm against Max’s, his fingers lingering briefly over his hand.

“These are wrong,” Daniel notes, still staring at the sky.

“What?”

“The stars,” he says, holding Max’s hand. Gently, he lifts their joined hands and moves them around in the air with his index finger pointing out. It takes a few stunned seconds for Max to realize he’s tracing the constellations.

“This is Cassiopeia,” Daniel traces a W-shaped cluster of stars. “She was a queen of unrivalled beauty. And that—” Their palms slide together over the galaxies, “—that is Ursa Major. See, it’s wrong.”

Max looks at him, confused.

“Those are northern hemisphere stars,” Daniel explains. “You wouldn’t be able to see them in the real Australian sky.”

He drops their hands into the blanket between their bodies, but he doesn’t let go of Max’s hand.

“How do you know all this?”

“My dad taught me,” Daniel answers. “When I was a kid, I loved lying outside on warm summer nights and mapping the stars. I wanted to be an astronaut.”

Max snorts. “Cute.”

“Aw, you think I’m cute?” Dan teases.

“I didn’t say that,” Max mutters through the lump in his throat.

Daniel gives him a knowing look, but he lets it go.

“I find it fascinating,” the Australian says. “The limitless potential of the universe. There could be multiple or infinite realities. Do you believe in parallel universes?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.” Max ponders it for a moment, a strange thought materializing in his head. “Do you think simulations are parallel universes?

“In a way, I suppose they are,” Daniel muses. “I’ve always found it very liberating, to know that what happens here doesn’t happen at all. We could do whatever we wanted without any consequences. It’s kind of exhilarating, isn’t it?”

Max doesn’t miss the flirtatious tone.

“Is that a pick-up line?”

There is a pause, filled with endless possibilities. Daniel’s eyes slide to the side, searching Max’s, his face much closer than before. They flicker briefly to his lips.

“I asked first,” Daniel replies.

Max doesn’t know who closes the gap, but it doesn’t matter, because it feels like he’s been holding his breath since he entered the simulation, and now he can finally breathe. The kiss is tantalizingly slow. Daniel teases him with fleeting brushes of his lips against Max’s, a slight drag of tongue that promises a lot more to come. Max’s impatience takes over and he seeks the steady pressure of Daniel’s body against his. He lets them slot together, legs and tongues entwining in delightful friction.

His heart hammers in his eardrums as Daniel slides his lips down his neck, one hand slipping under his t-shirt, rubbing smooth circles over Max’s skin.

“You’re a good kisser, did you know that?” Daniel whispers against his collarbone.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Max grumbles, feeling like his whole face is on fire.

Daniel laughs, and the entire universe, real or not, shakes with its intensity.

“Oh, Maxy. What am I going to do with you?”

-

It seems to be a generally accepted notion that what happens in the simulation stays in the simulation. So, when Christian greets them with a satisfied smile, Max tries his best not to stare too hard at Daniel.

“Gentlemen, I believe we can work with this,” Christian says, handing them the familiar piece of paper with the bold letters.

 **_Compatibility score: 72.0%_ ** **.**

Max tries not to dwell too much on the missing twenty-eight points, or on the feeling of disappointment that settles in his chest as Daniel carefully avoids him for the rest of the day.

* * *

**III.**

The third time Max is pulled into a simulation, he instantly knows that things have gone wrong.

The air is thick in the dark hallway, shrouded in a black tar fog that stings his eyes and floods his lungs. There’s nothing in the house, just one empty room after another, drenched in toxic smog, but the layout is one that Max knows well. He knows exactly what this place is. And his teammate is nowhere in sight.

He searches desperately, carried by the undertow of purpose that moves his feet without his permission, until he hears the whimpers.

“Pierre?”

He finds him sitting in a corner, shaking and hugging his knees, tear tracks running down his face.

“Shit. Pierre.” He tries to touch the Frenchman’s shoulder, but he visibly flinches.

“What is this place?!” Pierre yells out. His nostrils flare, his face contorting in fear. “It’s one of yours, _non_?”

Max stares at the scuffed floorboards, where, in another world, there was an iron-framed bed covered in patterned sheets with little racing cars. He nods.

“There’s someone else here,” Pierre says.

“What?” Max looks around. “That’s not possible.”

“Well, there is. I saw them! It’s—” His eyes go infinitely large as he looks over Max’s shoulder.

Max turns in time to see the smoke rise from the ground in a swirl, morphing into a human form.

 _You little shit._ Its deep voice echoes throughout the room. _You think you’re good? You are nothing without me, you hear me?_

Max watches in horror as the grey soot takes on the unmistakable likeness of his father.

 _You’ll never be good enough_.

It is awfully familiar, except this time Jos isn’t yelling at him. He is yelling at Pierre, charging at him with anger etched on his dark features.

Pierre lets out a bloodcurdling scream as a smoky hand tries to grab his shoulder before dissolving into thin air.

“It’s not real.” Max drops to his knees, holding onto Pierre, trying to shake him out of his daze. “He can’t touch you. He’s not real.”

The figure returns, shifting fluidly between a series of familiar faces. Jos. Christian. Marko. An endless chant echoing through the room.

 _You’ll never be good enough_.

“Make it stop, Max. Please.”

He holds onto Pierre as the fog around them grows thicker and lethally toxic, clouding the entire room.

“I’m sorry, Pierre,” Max murmurs against his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Pierre claws furiously at his back, his voice rough and breathless.

“I can’t breathe.”

When they’re pulled back into Christian’s office, Max still has an arm around Pierre’s shoulders, drawing small circles on his upper arm as the Frenchman gasps for breath.

Max meets Christian’s gaze through the simulator frame, shaking his head in silence.

He doesn’t bother to check the score.

* * *

**IV.**

He finds himself in a garden, surrounded by vibrant green trees and well-groomed rose bushes shaped into intricate patterns. In the centre of the garden stands a gazebo, its arched roof towering proudly in its vaguely oriental design. It overlooks a small, artificial lake with lily pads floating lazily in its opaque green surface.

Max’s senses are assaulted by the overwhelming scent of jasmine. It makes his nose itch. The stillness of this place is almost unsettling.

“This is you, right?” Max asks.

Alex chuckles.

“Obviously,” he replies. “I’ve been here before, too. It’s a good place to meditate.”

Max wrinkles his nose in disgust at the very idea of meditating, something he’s never had the time or the right temperament for.

“You mean in real life, or…”

“In a simulation,” Alex clarifies. “I guess that’s not very original of me.” He lets out a self-conscious chuckle.

Two identical simulations, that’s something Max has never heard of. Which of course begs the question—

“How did the first one go?”

He wonders briefly if he’s crossing a line here; the intimate nature of simulations leads to an unspoken _don’t ask, don’t tell_ agreement between the drivers. Alex doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“Good enough,” he admits. “Pretty normal for a simulation, actually. Nothing too bizarre happened.”

That’s comforting, given Max’s last experience. And yet, he feels increasingly uncomfortable in the serenity of this place.

He feels a slight rustling around his legs and looks down to find a plump orange cat nestled against him, purring lazily.

“Hey, little buddy,” he crouches down to pet the cat. His orange fur is thick and lush, almost golden, and tousled around his head like a lion’s mane. He looks up at Max and wags his tail proudly. “And who might you be?”

The cat hisses at him, with such ferocity that it almost sounds like a roar.

“Be careful with that one,” Alex warns, with a fond chuckle. “Feisty little bugger. He’ll bite your finger right off.”

Right on cue, the little lion-cat scratches at the back of Max’s hand, claws digging in deep until they draw blood.

“ _Son of a bitch_ —” Max clutches his injured hand to his chest, as the pulling sensation begins to form in his stomach.

Alex shakes his head.

“Ah, here we go again.”

-

“Can’t we just keep him?” Max asks wearily as soon as Alex leaves Christian’s office. “Fifty-one percent, that’s a passing grade at least.” His attempt to be funny is met with Christian’s impassive stare.

“Max, you know it won’t work.”

He knows, obviously. It didn’t work with Daniel either, and that was a much, much higher score.

Christian’s eyes bore into him.

“What’s this about?”

The truth is, Max is tired.

This endless pursuit of the right teammate is weighing him down. It’s distracting him from the things that matter, and it’s hindering his racing. He’s tired of going on simulations every year, sometimes even more frequently. They drain his energy and exhaust his patience, and invariably leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He’s tired of feeling unloved.

“We can’t switch drivers every other month, Christian. It’s ridiculous. You have to give him a chance.”

Christian sighs and Max knows that the team principal is as much out of options as Max feels.

“Fine, we’ll keep him in the line-up, at least until we find a better solution.”

It seems like a weight is lifted from Max’s shoulders, only to be replaced by a heavy conscience. He tries not to feel guilty, but he can’t help but wonder if all he’s managing to do is trap Alex in a place where he has no future, setting him up for failure.

“What if it works?” Max clings to his last shred of optimism.

Christian scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

**V.**

Things don’t work out with Alex, and in the end, he is pushed aside with a callous indifference he doesn’t deserve.

The next scenario Max is pulled into is perhaps the most accurate he has ever encountered. Every single detail is just like its real-life counterpart—from the greywacke asphalt framed in red and white curbs, to the desert dunes that surround the entire track.

It might have been almost comforting if it wasn’t for the fact that he finds himself exactly at turn four of the Bahrain circuit.

He’s sure it’s a cruel joke of fate that, of all the tracks and all the corners in the world, he finds himself in the one that’s still a fresh sore in his memory. There are skid marks in the asphalt and deep grooves in the gravel where his hopes have been trampled by hot rubber, driven into the wall by the sheer stupidity of Charles Leclerc.

Why they’ve ended up here, of all places, he doesn’t have a clue, except that—he groans inwardly— _of course_.

“This is where I won my first Grand Prix,” Checo says, gazing in awe at the empty track.

Right. Of course.

The win that should have been Max’s, if Leclerc hadn’t crashed into them and taken him out of the race. He bites his tongue to keep the resentment at bay, making a rude comment about Leclerc instead.

Checo laughs, but there’s no bitterness in it, and why should there be? The fateful entanglement that sent Max crashing into the wall was the same one that sparked Checo’s rampant ride from last to first, in true fairy-tale fashion. And isn’t that the ultimate reason they’re in a simulation together now?

“I thanked Charles when he came to apologize,” the Mexican says, chuckling.

Max swallows the bile rising in his throat.

 _He never apologized to me_.

-

They walk along the track for a while. It looks less beautiful in broad daylight, without the twinkle of floodlights and colourful fireworks against the desert night sky.

Just as they circle back to the pit straight, he notices the figures on the grandstand. They’re made of billowing sand and Max can’t make out their features from where he is standing, but he can tell they’re not hostile the way Jos had been. They cheer loudly as Max and Checo walk by.

“That’s my family,” Checo says in awe, already making his way through the barriers to meet them.

Max stays put as he watches Checo reunite with the sand clones of his family. A burly male figure approaches him first, and he recognizes him as Checo’s father. Max can’t stop the stab of jealousy that hits his chest as he watches their affectionate interaction, as he feels the love and support emanating from the happy group.

He turns away, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own simulation, and it is with relief that he feels his insides pull backwards.

-

They don’t score high enough, and this time Christian’s frustration matches his own.

Checo speaks in hushed tones to the team boss, seemingly enthusiastic despite their poor performance. He looks so at ease in his dark blue Red Bull t-shirt that Max wonders if this is what it finally takes for Christian to realize what the obvious solution to the problem is.

For him to realize that maybe _Max_ is the problem.

He leaves the factory with a sinking heart. He doesn’t look back.


	2. …and one time he does

“No. Absolutely not.”

The second he steps into the airy office, Max knows he’s wasting his time.

“Hello Max,” the man behind the desk greets him, peering at him from behind thick-framed glasses. “Glad you could join us.”

He gestures to the seat in front of his desk, the one not currently occupied by his potential future teammate, who is already scowling at Max.

Max, of course, had heard about the rumours. But the reality of the situation didn’t fully hit him until he is face to face with Charles _fucking_ Leclerc.

It’s hard to pinpoint the source of their animosity, the pivotal moment that made Charles Leclerc the proverbial stone in his shoe. Maybe it was some leftover resentment from their karting days and Charles’ tendency to ruin Max’s races in the stupidest ways possible. Or maybe it was the press’s insistence on pitting them against each other—the two poster boys of modern Formula 1. Charles, the loved one with his charming smile and tragic story, and his impeccable, media-trained answers that always please everyone. The Prince. _Il predestinato_. And Max. Max is the villain. He’s always been the villain.

They are polar opposites. They’ve even managed to find completely different outfits within the limited selection of team attire. Max in the black shirt; Charles in a white polo. The same silver logo.

He looks at the team boss, frowning.

“You can’t possibly think this is going to work out.”

Charles scoffs.

“It’s a shame, because I’m super excited about it, mate.”

And that’s what the media fail to see, every time. They buy into the fragile looks and the calculated self-deprecation and brush aside the bite in Charles’ words, the thin veil of sarcasm.

All they get is an amused stare from the team boss.

“Actually, Max, the very reason we’re here today is so I don’t have to do any thinking. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there are these _machines,”_ he nods with a knowing grin towards the simulator in the corner, “that can tell me exactly how well this will work.”

-

He steps onto a hill, his eyes straining in the sudden brightness.

The wind tickles his face and rides like a wave through the grass that stretches down the steep slope, meeting the sapphire blue water below.

The breeze is warm and smells like sea salt, bringing a familiar feeling inside him. It almost feels like…

“Home.”

Charles’ wistful outburst snaps Max out of his trance, and he finds him staring open-mouthed at the landscape. He seems to realize that he’s spoken aloud, blushing slightly, eyes coming back into focus.

“I mean,” Charles scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I think this is Monaco. Only without all the—”

“Buildings,” Max says, and the realization hits him at once. He recognizes the crescent-shaped bays of azure Mediterranean waters, slightly misshapen without all the port structures.

“Yeah,” Charles agrees.

The wind ruffles his hair and Max feels a sense of calm invade him. His lungs expand with a gush of fresh air. He’s never felt this comfortable in a simulation before, and it doesn’t even bother him that the one place he feels so at home in belongs more to Charles than it will ever belong to him.

“We should try to get along,” he blurts out, infused with this newfound sense of peacefulness.

Charles looks at him strangely.

“It’ll make things easier,” Max reasons with a shrug.

He is met with a sceptical frown, and, yeah, maybe it will be a little harder than he thought.

“Should we head down there?” asks Charles, and Max notices a narrow dirt path that might not have been there a minute ago.

“All right,” he replies. And then, driven by a sudden competitive urge, he grins. “I’ll race you.”

-

They arrive by the seaside panting and sweating. He’s glad he’s wearing sneakers for this. _Real_ sneakers, as opposed to Charles’ trendy Converse.

Where the marina was supposed to be, there is a small strip of white sand that stretches gently into the sea. With no visible obstruction, Max can see the expanse of land along the coast. It’s strange to see this place so devoid of all the things that make Monte Carlo—well, Monte Carlo. There are no dazzling lights, no fancy yachts, no hotels, no casino.

“Well, at least some things are the same, eh?” comments Charles with an appreciative chuckle.

When Max turns to him questioningly, Charles looks pointedly at the ground, and Max realizes that they are standing on asphalt. The road stretches out in winding curves shaped like a twisted hairpin. There’s no tunnel, no pits, not even a single white line drawn on the black asphalt, but there’s no doubt about what it is.

“The circuit!”

Max beams at this realization.

They walk down the length of the track. He knows the nineteen turns by heart; he could probably do this with his eyes closed. But they end up right back where they started, with no idea of what to do next.

“I don’t get it,” Charles grumbles, dropping to the grass where the grandstand should have been. “Isn’t something supposed to happen?”

The lack of clarity is starting to bother Max, too. He’s never felt so clueless in a simulation before.

Charles sighs. “I guess I should be glad we ended up here and not some place… _worse_.”

He looks at Max hesitantly, as if maybe he said something he shouldn’t. Max’s thoughts immediately jump to Pierre. He knows the Frenchman and Charles are friends, but surely…? _He wouldn’t do that, would he?_

Max feels irritation bubbling in his chest at the thought of Pierre telling his greatest rival what he saw in their simulation, but he decides to steer away from the subject altogether. He has started to feel a faint tingling in his limbs, and he has an idea.

“I think we should go for a swim.”

-

Charles’ high-pitched shriek pierces through his ears before Max can even register what’s happened. He stares with a mixture of shock and mild amusement at Charles standing in the white sand, completely naked, eyes wide as his hands fly out to cover his crotch.

“What the fuck?!”

Charles stares at him angrily, as if somehow Max is responsible for this. Which is just ridiculous because, judging by the cool breeze suddenly caressing his— _ahem_ —parts, Max is in the exact same predicament.

It seems that, as soon as they stepped onto the beach, their clothes simply just disappeared. He explains so to Charles, with all the calm he can muster.

“No shit,” Charles grumbles at his obvious statement. “Are you just going to stand there like that?” He makes a point to look anywhere but at Max.

Max is far from pleased with the current state of affairs, but he refuses to cover himself out of sheer stubbornness. He thanks the gods for the nerves of steel that allow him to maintain some composure. Unlike the shrieking, blushing mess that is Charles Leclerc.

He will take comfort in small victories.

“Why not?”

Charles huffs.

“I’m going in the water,” he announces, trotting off toward the ocean.

“Hey, your butt cheeks have dimples too!” Max calls out, unable to resist messing around with Charles some more. He’s starting to find the whole situation hilarious.

Charles doesn’t look back as he gives him the middle finger.

-

Max must admit that he feels much more comfortable standing in the shallow end of the sea with the blue-green water pooling around his waist. Charles has submerged himself up to his chin, keeping a good three feet of distance between them.

“What do we do now?” grumbles the Monegasque.

Max rolls his eyes. Why Charles thinks that should have any answers, he doesn’t know.

“We wait for something to happen.” _Obviously_. “Why do you always ask me? It would seem as if this was your first simulation.”

“Well, I don’t know how your simulations go, but I don’t usually run around naked with my teammates,” Charles replies, sounding annoyed.

“Hmm. Not even Vettel?” He gives him a sly grin to drive home the implication, and chuckles with satisfaction as Charles gulps down an ungodly amount of salt water.

It takes Charles a full minute to cough the water out of his lungs, and Max would have taken pity and helped him if he wasn’t sure Charles would murder him if he got any closer.

“Seriously,” Charles asks when he recovers, his voice hoarse from coughing. “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”

Max considers their strange predicament.

“Definitely not.”

“What if it’s a glitch or something?” Charles’ brow furrows with concern. “This doesn’t feel like it normally does. I mean, it’s too... uneventful.”

Max hates to admit that Charles is right. They’ve been in this universe for what feels like at least half a day, and he still hasn’t felt that undeniable sense of purpose. _A glitch?_ That was unheard of, but not entirely impossible.

“Look, let’s just try to figure it out together.” He is feeling generous after all. “If you feel something, let me know, and I will too. Then we can talk it out, okay?”

Charles reluctantly agrees. “And in the meantime, what? Are we just supposed to wait in the fucking ocean?”

“Unless you’d prefer to go back to the beach?” Max raises his eyebrows with a smirk. A loud groan tells him Charles would much rather not.

“What if the water gets too cold?”

 _Christ, does he ever stop complaining?_ The ocean water is currently the approximate temperature of lukewarm soup, so Max doesn’t think that’s a real possibility anytime soon.

He glances down, letting his gaze wander to the indistinct shape of Charles’ body under the water.

“Don’t worry about it. If it gets cold, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

-

They are still in the water when Max sees Charles looking behind him, green eyes bulging out of its sockets.

“Where in the world did that come from?”

He turns around and spots a boat anchored a few feet away from the shore. It looks like a small cabin cruiser, its white paint gleaming in the sunlight.

“Finally, something is happening,” Max exclaims. “Let’s go take a look.”

Charles doesn’t look like he wants to do anything that involves getting out of the water.

“C’mon,” Max rolls his eyes. “I’ll race you!”

That successfully makes Charles budge. They swim to the boat in fierce competition. Max wins; Charles complains that Max had an unfair advantage, and things feel less awkward again.

Max hauls himself up the ladder, quickly checking the deck and the small cabin for anything that might serve as clothing.

“It’s empty,” he announces when he finds nothing useful.

Charles is still in the water, holding onto the ladder for support, and he flails around dejectedly in response.

“I’m knackered,” Max declares, lying face down on the deck of the boat. The cushioned surface is warm, and it feels heavenly against his tired muscles. “I’m going to stay here for a bit.”

He can hear Charles protesting, but he doesn’t bother to figure out what he’s saying. The sun’s rays licking at his back feel like a warm blanket, and he’s already starting to doze off. The last thing he notices is Charles’ heavy footsteps on the deck and a wet body settling down beside him.

-

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but when he wakes up, his hair is completely dry, and his skin is hot and pulled tight across his body. He can feel his back starting to sting, and he wonders if he can get sunburned in a simulation.

He squints, adjusting to the brightness and tries to look over his shoulder. Yes, you can definitely get a sunburn in a simulation.

He groans, wishing he at least had sunscreen with him. If he has to stand in the sun all day, things could get very painful.

No sooner does the thought cross his mind than a bottle of sunscreen materializes in front of him.

Charles gasps. “Did you just do that?”

Max hadn’t even noticed Charles was awake. The Monegasque is lying with his face in his arms to shelter from the sun.

“I think so,” Max replies. “I was thinking about it, and it appeared.”

“Sun cream, really?” Charles scoffs. “Why didn’t you think about clothes, or towels, or something?”

Max is pretty sure they’ve both spent the last few hours thinking about clothes, or at least the lack of them.

“It doesn’t work like that,” he replies, handing Charles the bottle of sunscreen. “Here, can you put some on my back?”

“No.”

“You’re a shitty teammate,” Max says.

Charles looks up from his arms indignantly. _Oh, so now he cares._

“What does it even matter?” Charles argues. “It’s not like you’re walking out of here with a sunburn.”

“Yeah, but in the meantime, my back stings and I don’t want to make it worse.” And Charles isn’t one to judge either, because he might not be as pale as Max, but he still doesn’t look any tanner than a glass of milk, and Max can already see the reddish tinge on his shoulders. “C’mon, I’ll do yours next.”

“Fine,” Charles says, exasperated.

He scoots closer and reaches for the bottle, shaking it twice before spilling what must be half its contents on Max’s back. _Charming_. He lathers the cream over Max’s back half-heartedly, using only one hand to avoid moving off his stomach.

“There. It’s done,” Charles growls, white cream dripping from his hand.

Max looks at it suggestively.

“Shut up,” Charles warns, wiping it on Max’s bicep. He hides his face in his arms again.

True to his word, Max takes on the task of putting sunscreen on Charles’ back with a little more care than the Monegasque spared him. Charles tenses a little as the cold cream touches the small of his back, but starts to relax once Max’s fingers begin rubbing up, spreading the cream over his shoulder blades.

Max can’t help but stare at the broad expanse of hard muscle beneath his palms, his eyes following the defined curve of Charles’ spine.

Charles is hot, objectively speaking. Max is hardly the first person to notice that. He has seen the way women and men alike fawn over him, melting at the sight of that infamous dimpled smile. Charles is also quite vain.

His muscles twitch under Max’s palms.

“Stop flexing, you idiot.”

Max pokes one finger deep over a particularly hard knot between Charles’ shoulder blades, making him hiss, much to Max’s delight. He rubs vigorously until he feels the knot soften under his fingers. He enjoys the feel of Charles’ body relaxing under his touch, and his gaze wanders back to the dip of his lower back where it meets the firm swell of his ass. Charles makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan.

“Okay,” Max stops, colour rising to his cheeks as he realizes that he’s made this unnecessarily awkward. He tries for nonchalance. “I’m going to the water. Do you want to come?”

Charles replies something unintelligible. Max can’t see his face, but his ears are bright red.

“What’s that?”

Charles lets out an audible groan.

“I’ll go in a minute.”

-

The sky is already tinted in the pink and orange hues of dusk by the time they make the awkward walk back to shore. The second they step back onto the road, their clothes reappear on their bodies, clinging stiffly to the salt on their skin.

“Oh. I didn’t think of that,” Charles grimaces sheepishly.

Max just laughs, almost hysterically. Whoever is in charge of simulations has a wicked sense of humour.

“So, we’re staying off the beach in the future,” he remarks. “Duly noted.”

Charles looks sad at the prospect, staring longingly at the orange shade bleeding onto the golden surface of the sea.

Max wanders around the edge of the track, balancing one foot in front of the other on the fine line between asphalt and grass. His stomach growls, hunger finally catching up with him, and he realizes they haven’t eaten all day. He watches the solution materialize before his eyes.

“Charles!” he shouts, walking towards the newly-discovered ice-cream cart, the street-vendor kind that used to line up the boardwalk in the real world.

“Is that dinner?” Charles approaches him, horrified.

Max rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think sim calories can hurt your diet,” he notes. At least, he hopes so, as he begins mixing every flavour into a large paper cup.

“That looks absolutely disgusting,” Charles comments, staring at the rainbow of gelato in Max’s cup.

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

Max fills a spoonful of every-flavour ice cream. “Here,” he shoves it toward Charles’ face so fast that Charles has no choice but to open his mouth to avoid a messy collision.

“ _Bruhn fruzz_ ,” he yells through his mouthful, squeezing his eyes shut into a pained grimace.

“What?”

Charles gulps down through chunks of ice cream, using his fingers to wipe the traces off the corners of his lips.

“I said brain freeze, idiot!” he replies, gasping for air. Max stares at him expectantly. Charles licks some of the melting goo off his fingers. “The taste is… _interesting_.”

“I told you so.”

He watches as Charles prepares himself a much more sensible combination of chocolate and vanilla before they both sit down at the edge of the track, staring into the sunset and quietly nipping at their ice cream.

He finds it surprisingly comfortable—being in this place with Charles, doing something as mundane as eating ice cream. He thinks of all the times they’ve fought on and off track. Ever since they were kids, their rivalry felt fueled by hatred and animosity, and his absolute desire to outdo Charles in every way possible. But now, faced with the prospect of having to work together, he finds that he doesn’t mind Charles’ company as much as he thought he would.

“Why do we hate each other?”

The waves roll into the sand with a gentle drumming sound that contrasts with the heaviness of his question.

“I don’t hate you,” Charles says with a frown. He looks at Max with big green eyes that look almost golden in the soft light of dusk, startled and genuine.

Hate really is a strong word.

“But you don’t like me,” Max prods. “We’ve always been rivals, even when we were kids.”

Charles stares at the horizon for a long time, before speaking.

“I don’t know. When we were in karting, you were just— _different,_ ” Charles says, and it makes Max’s heart sink under the weight of those memories. He knows it’s true—he was never like the other kids. He was never allowed to be. “All of the others, they played football before the races, and you. You won everything and snatched all the trophies. _You_ were a threat.”

Max scoffs.

Back then, he’d wanted so much to be a part of those football games; he’d wanted to blend in with the other young drivers, to feel part of their group. But he never got the chance; he had to spend all his time tending to the kart, learning the mechanics, focusing on the race. The only thing he wanted more was to win, and so Max did just that.

“Is that it? I’m flattered,” he replies, with a hint of derision.

Charles shrugs his shoulders.

“It is a compliment,” he says, turning to look at him. “I used to watch you, you know. When you first came into F1. I thought it was so unfair that I was busting my arse in F3, and there you were, the same age as me and scoring points in the big leagues. I admired you, I really did. I wanted so much to be you.”

Max had been so young. _Too_ young, in hindsight. But that first year had been incredible, he’d felt like he had the whole world within his reach. He misses that exhilarating feeling that came with youthful recklessness. When racing was just _racing_ , and not a job hampered by years of failed expectations, media criticism and teammate politics.

“You gave me a headache when you finally decided to show up,” Max chuckles.

Perhaps Max understands why everyone was so keen to reignite the infamous rivalry. When Charles signed with Ferrari, it gave Max a certain sense of purpose, something a little more exciting than just watching the Mercedes win all the races.

“We had some good battles, didn’t we?” says Charles, with a little smile. “I might have hated you a little bit in Austria, though.”

Max remembers well being on the other end of that particular death stare. He’s struck by how much lighter Charles looks now, in his white polo shirt, than he ever did in the striking red racing suit. His face glows with what’s left of the sunshine, his nose a little red from standing in the sun for too long. He looks almost younger, a mirror image of the quiet boy who first climbed into a Sauber.

“Why did you leave Ferrari?” asks Max, curiosity itching in his brain. The rumours of Charles’ impending departure had flashed through the paddock like an electric bolt, shocking everyone in its path.

“I don’t know,” Charles replies with surprising candour. “I could give you the media bullshit or blame it on the car or whatever.” And of course, Max knows that plenty of ink has run over the subject.

“But the truth is, I just had to get away,” he sighs. “I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. And it’s my fault, mostly. All the expectations, I think it made everything a lot harder to accept.

“And I debated for so long between staying or leaving. I still don’t know if I made the right decision,” Charles confesses. “I feel like I’ve let everyone down.”

Driving for the _Scuderia_ was Charles’ much-advertised childhood dream. Leaving without the coveted championship must feel like the ultimate failure. It’s a feeling Max knows well.

“Why did you leave Red Bull?” Charles counters, dangling the plastic spoon from the corner of his mouth, their ice cream cups long since discarded.

And it’s hard to find the exact answer, even though Max saw the question coming.

He had been happy at Red Bull. Maybe for the first time in his life, he’d found a place where he truly felt at home, and a team he belonged on. But Max was never enough. He felt inadequate and incomplete, and he just couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that grew with each failed simulation. And in the end, Max never gave them the title they had hoped for, either.

“It just wasn’t fair, to anyone,” he says, without needing much explanation. Their woes had been very public, after all. “And I could have pretended everything was fine and stayed. They wanted me to. But I had to know—” Max finds all the brightness of Charles’ green eyes staring intently at him and he feels suddenly sheepish. “—I need to know that it isn’t just my fault.”

In the end, he’s not that different from young Max, wanting to win it all and feel loved at the same time, wishing the two were not mutually exclusive.

He’s also not so different from Charles, he realizes.

“I don’t hate you either, you know,” Max says, quietly.

The sun has completely disappeared beyond the sea, and the moonlight casts a pale green shadow on their faces. It’s funny how Max only has to say those words out loud to realize it’s the truth.

He has never hated Charles.

He might even like him a little bit. How tragic.

-

The quiet stillness of the first stars in the indigo sky should have been enough clue, but it’s not until a hammock appears, hanging between two palm trees, that they realize that they’re in for a night in the simulation.

Max sits down on the thick fabric, feeling it sway under his weight. It’s not ideal, but he will take it over haystacks any day.

He leans back and gazes into the distant twinkle of starlight. His muscles ache from the day’s exertions and he feels his eyelids falling shut.

“What are you doing?”

He opens one eye, meeting Charles’ anxious face.

“Going to sleep,” Max states. You would have thought it was obvious.

“And where am I supposed to sleep?” asks Charles in a low voice.

Max shifts his weight over the scratchy canvas.

“There’s plenty of room,” he declares simply.

Charles flatly refuses to share the hammock, despite it being its obvious purpose, and after a light-hearted argument that Max is too tired to continue, the Monegasque trots off to the nearest patch of grass.

Max watches him lie down uncomfortably on the ground, wedging his head in his arms.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, turning on his side.

The gentle breeze is warm, a constant temperature between day and night reminding them of the artificialness of this world.

Max feels the fatigue take over and falls asleep instantly.

-

He wakes up to the sound of lazy waves rolling in, a vague, distant roar that reminds him of the sound of a motor engine. He feels surprisingly rested. The sun is already high in the sky, so he figures he must have slept through the morning.

He sits up groggily, stretching his arms over his head and taking in his surroundings. Nothing seems too different from last night. He watches Charles come down the track, carrying an armful of colourful bags and water bottles.

“Finally,” Charles exclaims. “You sleep like a log.”

“‘Morning,” Max grumbles in response. His mouth feels dry, like he’s eaten a cotton ball.

“Here,” Charles tosses him a water bottle, dumping the rest of the food bags on the hammock next to Max. “I found these near La Rascasse.”

Max downs half the water in one gulp, digging through the food selection. It’s mostly sweets and a few baked goods as well.

“I hope you’re right about simulation calories if that’s all we have to eat,” Charles says with a snort.

 _He hopes so too_ , Max thinks as he delves into the first bag of sweets.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I think this one was left for you,” Charles pulls out a familiar blue and silver can from his pocket.

Max takes the energy drink with an eye roll.

“Very funny,” he says to no one in particular.

Charles snorts and sits down on the hammock, occasionally taking a piece of candy from the pile between them.

Their feet drag on the dirt floor, making the hammock swing.

“I always wondered if every simulation looks like this,” Charles says, pointing to the landscape in front of them. “Mine were always, well, not _exactly_ like this _,”_ he explains, “but they always took place somewhere idyllic. It’s like a weird version of paradise, _non_?”

Max considers it for a moment. Daniel’s Australian farm and Alex’s garden certainly fit the description. Even Carlos’ Spanish village had something ethereal about it. Though perhaps _purgatory_ would be a more apt description.

“I’ve been in some like this,” Max replies, “but not all of them.”

He feels Charles’ gaze linger on his face.

“Pierre?” he asks, and Max’s neck snaps to look at him, a mixture of dread and anger boiling up in his stomach.

“He didn’t tell me what happened,” Charles adds quickly. “I talked to him that day, and he was upset. He just told me it was bad and refused to say anything else.”

Max thinks back to the horrible feeling of finding himself in his childhood house, the black tar mist that engulfed everything, and Pierre cowering in the same corner where young Max used to.

He finds himself retelling the entire simulation to Charles; from Jos’s shifting form to the feeling of powerlessness when he couldn’t help Pierre.

He tells Charles about his other simulations, too. How he would have loved to just stay on Daniel’s farm forever, how he had hoped they would work well together, and how it had hurt when Daniel left. He tells Charles how Alex’s quietness unnerved him and how he had felt threatened by how at ease Checo seemed to be in their simulation, surrounded by the people he loved while Max had no one.

It feels strangely cathartic, to confide all of this in someone for the first time in his life. Charles also shares bits of his experiences, with Ericsson and Seb and Carlos, and Max’s chest feels a little lighter afterwards, like this huge weight he was carrying around has been released just by saying the words out loud.

They’ve been deep in conversation for hours when Charles’ gaze shifts beyond the horizon again. He bites his lip as if debating if he should bring up the subject again.

“So, you saw your father in a simulation,” he says, almost quietly. “And you said Checo saw his too, right?”

Max nods, unsure if Charles can even see the movement. His eyes are stubbornly glued to the thin line where the blue water meets the sky.

“I didn’t know you could see other people,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I wish I had that chance.”

Max can see the gleam in his eyes. His father had been the last person Max wanted to see in a simulation, but he hadn’t realised all this time it would mean something completely different to Charles.

“They weren’t real,” Max says softly, with a lump in his throat. Blunt honesty was always his best policy. “They were just memories of them.”

He recalls Daniel’s theory of how simulations work.

“It’s nothing more than what’s already in your head,” he tells Charles. “You don’t need a simulation to access your own memories. You don’t need it to remember them.”

He puts his hand on Charles’ thigh, hoping it’s a comforting gesture, and gives him a sympathetic smile. Max has never been good at this side of human interactions, and his throat tightens at the sight of the sadness etched on Charles’ face.

“I know you’re right,” Charles says, resting his hand on top of Max’s. “but it would have been nice anyway.”

-

On the third night, Charles gives in and joins him in the hammock.

Max tries to stifle a smug grin as Charles approaches sheepishly, eyeing the rough fabric with distrust.

“You won’t fall off,” Max promises.

Charles looks far from convinced. 

It takes a lot of bargaining and Max’s adamant refusal to let Charles lie across from him—he doesn’t want to wake up with his feet in his face, thank you very much—for Charles to finally settle down next to him.

He watches in amusement as Charles tries in vain to fight the tilt of the fabric that pushes him half on top of Max with increasing momentum every time he tries to move away.

“Stop wiggling so much,” Max says, putting a steadying arm around Charles until he finally stills with a resigned groan, resting his head on Max’s shoulder.

It is surprisingly comfortable, lying there listening to Charles’ breathing mingling with the distant sound of the waves, and sleep comes easily afterwards.

He gets used to the extra warmth at night.

-

Max goes for a run on the track every morning. Sometimes Charles joins him. Sometimes they race each other, bickering about who won after collapsing on the grass by the side of the road where the finish line should have been.

They find an easy balance.

They work together on menial tasks like finding the food, and they explore the surrounding areas each day, trying to find new additions to the scenario or any clues to what could bring them back to the real world. They discuss their findings while munching on all sorts of comfort food left for them in random places.

Max is impressed by how much easier it is to work together than he thought it would be, how well they actually get along once they bother to try. 

Charles has a cheeky sense of humour, and they tease each other and turn everything into a competition.

Some days Max pretends he’s still asleep when Charles gets up in the morning, and he lets his gaze follow the Monegasque as he ventures to the beach, diving into the deep blue waves with reckless abandon. Charles looks happiest in these moments, peaceful and carefree. Max closes his eyes again and smiles.

He doesn’t dare disturb his peace.

-

One evening, Max decides to test his theory and tries running on the circuit with his eyes closed.

Charles’ laughter follows him, rising hysterically as Max inevitably loses track of the pace, missteps, and goes off the asphalt, stumbling onto the dry grass. Charles tries next and he is even more hopeless, missing almost every corner and Max has to steady him up with an arm around his waist to keep him from falling on his face.

They end up lying down in the warm asphalt, bellies full of laughter, with arms and legs spread like starfishes, basking in the last rays of the setting sun.

The eerie hour between sunset and nightfall is always the most surreal. The sky glows with a strange spectrum that flows from blood red to dusty pink, with a light that is neither natural nor artificial, out of the realm of this world.

“Do you think we’ll ever leave this place?” asks Max, as he stares out at the deep purple ocean, hesitation seeping into his voice.

“We will,” Charles says, and Max wants to hold on to every ounce of conviction in his steady voice.

He turns on his side, head propped on one elbow, and stares at Charles. His skin is tinged golden-orange in the fading light, and he seems to radiate a glow of his own.

“What if we’re stuck here forever?” Max’s voice is barely a whisper.

It feels sobering all of a sudden, any trace of laughter dying in his throat. The moment is tense, filled with a raw energy that crackles between them. Max can’t feel the road beneath his body. He feels like he is suspended in the air, floating in the warm embrace of the pink sky.

Charles turns on his side to look at him, bright green eyes peering straight into his soul.

“At least we’ll still have each other.”

Maybe it’s the strange energy of this place; or maybe it’s the conviction in Charles’ implicit promise that makes Max’s heart suddenly feel three sizes too big for his chest.

He leans closer, needing to feel the assuredness of Charles’ heat against his body. He clings to the words that replay in his head, realizing that he trusts Charles like he’s never fully trusted anyone before. Charles’ smile shines like the sun, cute dimples in full display.

Max has never craved anything so much in his life.

“I want to kiss you,” Max confesses as the tips of their noses touch. He feels a tingle run down his spine; a discharge of raw energy that finds nowhere else to go. It ignites in his veins. “Can I kiss you?”

He lowers his hooded gaze to Charles’ mouth, to the sharp line of his chin, to his bobbing throat. He feels the shaky exhale that escapes Charles’ lips against his own. “Yes.”

They meet halfway. Charles’ lips taste soft and feel sweet, and Max no longer knows which sense is which, all of them overwhelmed by _Charles_. Max can taste the sharpness of the salt on his lips, and he licks at it, craving more and more of the sweet drag of Charles’ tongue against his, of the velvety feel of deft fingers tracing Max’s skin.

He groans as Charles pulls back, wanting to follow him. He wants to ignore the burning in his lungs, annoyed by his body’s treacherous need for oxygen. Breathing seems like such a boring inconvenience. He needs Charles much more than he needs to survive.

The distance doesn’t last long, and Charles presses him fully against the asphalt, finding a home against his chest in a delicious mess of entangled limbs. He kisses him senseless, and Max forgets all about survival.

The sun has already disappeared into the horizon when Charles takes Max’s hand and leads them to the beach, leaving a trail of wet kisses on his neck along the way.

A shiver runs through Max’s body as their chests touch, flush against each other and suddenly bare. The ocean breeze feels like static running through every hair on his naked body.

He smirks against Charles’ lips.

“That’s convenient.”

They both grin, eyes scrunched in amusement as they sink to the sand. They laugh wildly, like two boys running with their eyes closed, not a single care in the world.

Clumsy hands explore each other’s bodies, greedy lips and curious tongues running through the hollows of pale skin. They laugh between sloppy kisses and heated touches until the laughter turns into a deep moan and then it’s a frantic race to the finish line.

Desire pools in Max’s stomach and he sees it reflected in the dark halo of Charles’ eyes. They’re both starved and wild, and in this moment all that matters is the electrifying buildup of heat between them.

Max elicits as much of those beautiful moans from Charles as he can, with his mouth wrapped around his cock. Charles’ fingers weave through strands of golden hair, his thighs trembling uncontrollably under Max’s palms. Charles comes with a long, whimpering sound, shooting hot strands down his throat, and Max doesn’t last long after that.

He scrambles for something to hold onto, and he crashes his mouth against Charles’ swollen lips, as Charles wraps a hand around his cock and licks his own come off Max’s tongue, until it’s all over in a flash of hot white mess.

Max falls back into the sand, trying to catch his breath. Charles tilts his head against Max’s and presses a little kiss to his collarbone. They’re both a mess of sticky skin and wild hair, and Max is sure there’s sand in places on his body where sand definitely doesn’t belong.

They stay in each other’s arms for a while, and Max stares at the glittering dots in the indigo sky, impassive witnesses to their embrace—countless constellations that may or may not belong there, Max doesn’t know. He can’t shake the eerie feeling that settles in his bones.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that.”

Charles tenses, and Max’s arms twitch against his will, holding him a little tighter, not ready to let go just yet.

“It doesn’t feel—” the word ‘ _right’_ dies in his throat because that’s a lie. It did feel right, it felt incredibly right, and maybe that’s what scares him the most.

“How do we know it’s real and not just a messed up effect of the simulation?” he asks. _Would this ever have happened if they were out there, racing in cars instead?_

Charles lifts his head and their eyes meet. Max could lose himself in those eyes, in every different version—green and yellow and gold and dark, all shining with the intensity of a thousand stars.

Charles is silent for a moment before his hand lands softly on Max’s chest.

“Your heart is racing,” he says, and Max feels dizzy from the deafening rush of blood that echoes in his ears.

Charles gently takes his hand and holds Max’s open palm to his chest. He can feel Charles’ heartbeat under his skin, and for a minute they just lie there, feeling their hearts beating in tandem.

“It’s real, Max,” Charles whispers through the clear night sky. “You just have to let yourself believe it.”

-

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

Charles sits up to look at him properly, while Max stretches out his arms, trying to get his sleep-addled brain into gear.

“You’re right,” Charles continues. “And you’re also wrong.”

He smiles haughtily, as if he possesses some wisdom to which Max is not privy. It piques his interest.

“Oh?”

“Of course this is a simulation,” Charles explains. “And it’s not the same as the real world. The rules are a little bent here, and I know we feel that we have to do certain things, and we learn not to resist that urge _—_

“—But,” he rests a hand on Max’s thigh. “We do have a choice. In fact, it’s all about choices, isn’t it? This is a test, and in the end, we will be judged by the decisions we make.”

Max had never thought about simulations that way before. And yet it seems so simple. So, obvious when you put it like that. But it’s not enough to soothe Max’s fears.

“And then what? We go back to reality, where none of this ever existed _…_ ”

“ _We_ exist there,” Charles interjects. “And we exist here, at the same time. We’ll still remember everything. All of our past simulations, they’re a part of ourselves, and it’s obvious that they’ve shaped our lives in little ways. They may not be tangible, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real.

“It shouldn’t really matter if all of this is happening in some remote part of our subconscious, because it’s made up of the very substance that makes us who we are, much like thoughts and dreams and… _love_ , even. These are all things that define us, and _that_ makes them real.”

He stares at Charles speechlessly, fascinated by the feverish gleam in his eyes.

He is constantly amazed by this boy, who is stupidly handsome and kind enough to care about Max after all they’ve been through. This boy, who is brave enough to want to stay by his side. Max pulls him into a hug, a silent thank you that never makes it past his throat. The firm weight of Charles’ arms around his neck and the gentle brush of lips against his forehead feel real enough to Max.

“So this is all in our subconscious, huh?” he says after a while. A sly grin spreads across his face as he pulls back a little, nudging his nose against Charles’. “Then whose subconscious came up with the nudist beach?”

Charles throws his head back with a laugh.

“You seemed to enjoy that a lot more than I did, dumbass.” He looks pointedly at Max, his eyes darkening. “Though I wouldn’t mind a little sunbathing right now.”

Max smirks.

“Have you gone all into philosopher mode just so you can get me naked again?”

Charles doesn’t answer. He pulls him by the hand to the beach, but he doesn’t stop when they reach the sand like Max thought he would. Instead, he runs, kicking up sand and diving down into the endless blue.

For hours they splash in the sea, floating in the glittering water as if they are weightless. And later, when they make it back to shore and Max licks the salt off Charles’ skin, he realizes this is how Charles must feel in those early morning hours, sneaking out to the sea. Max feels his mind clear of all worries. There is no pressure of time here, of dreams and expectations. It is in this moment that he feels most like himself—whole and free.

It is the happiest he has ever been.

-

They bask in the comfort of their newfound bliss, spending their days on the beach, the simulation only a vague presence in the back of their minds.

But as time drags on in a string of identical days and nights, it’s impossible not to let frustration enter their little bubble.

“I don’t get it,” Max complains one morning, waking up to the sound of waves for the umpteenth time. “Why are we still here?” He has lost count of how many days have passed. “We must be missing something.”

Charles sighs, turning in his arms to look at Max, resignation clearly etched on his sleepy expression.

“Max, we search this place every day,” he huffs. “What can we possibly be missing?”

He sounds like he would gladly leave it at that and go back to sleep. Desperation bubbles up in Max’s chest. _How can Charles not care if they ever leave the simulation?_

“We’re not doing enough,” he says, getting up. The breeze feels colder today, making his bones ache. “I just know it.”

“Fine,” Charles huffs, sitting up. “Then what do you suggest?”

There is a shift in the balance around them as Max looks at the landscape—the sea and the beach, the track and the hill. It’s barely perceptible, but as soon as Max lets his mind search for it, he can feel it—the quiet tingle that travels through his body, as if every atom is jiggling in place to propel him forward.

He stares at the dirt road they followed there on the first day.

“I want to go back up the hill,” he says. “Back to where we started.”

Max can feel he’s right; he knows that’s exactly what they are supposed to do. His whole body shakes with excitement and relief. _Finally, a breakthrough!_

“No.”

Charles stands up, his refusal adamant, and the word echoes through the empty marina.

“What?” Max turns to Charles and meets his ragged eyes and the thin, weary line of his lips. It tunes down Max’s annoyance a little, concern blooming in his chest. “Why not?”

Charles just shakes his head repeatedly.

“Charles, I can _feel_ it. This is it,” Max tries to put into words that ultimate sense of destiny.

Charles just stares at him in horror, his face pale and his eyes hollow. His voice trembles as he speaks.

“We can’t. I don’t know why, I just—” His eyes search Max’s, silently pleading. “Please, Max. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

 _Déjà vu_ hits him like a brick wall. Max has been here before, in this standoff, and he can see that the fear in Charles’ eyes is real.

“L-listen, we can take the boat out instead,” Charles suggests feebly. “We’ve never tried that either.”

He’s on the verge of tears, and that makes Max’s resolve crumble. He pulls Charles into a hug, resting his chin on top of his head.

“Hey,” he whispers into his hair. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, okay?” he promises, even though every fiber in his body wants to do the exact opposite.

He feels Charles nod against his chest, and they remain there, in each other’s arms, for a very long time.

-

The air is tense between them as they go through the day, and even though Max tries his best to perform their usual tasks, he cannot shake the feeling that draws his eyes to the dirt road outlined on the hill.

They watch the sunset in silence, sitting by the track as they do every day. This time it feels different, the restless flicker of hope in the back of his mind too bright to ignore.

“You know I care about you, right?” says Max, as they watch the sea foam mixing lazily with the sand. It’s not really a question. This place carries a mystical power that he can’t describe. Everything feels heightened and it makes him want to bare his soul.

Charles gives him a small smile.

“I care about you too,” Charles replies, his lips curling into a thin line as looks at the ocean. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

If there was a way to get them through this and back to the real world without hurting Charles, Max would take it in a heartbeat. But he knows he only has one option, and his mind is already made up.

He holds Charles’ hand tightly, wishing he never had to let go.

“Whatever happens, we’ll always have each other.”

They stumble onto the beach and fuck under the stars. It’s urgent and intense, but there’s something soft and reassuring about their kisses that makes Max want to stay in this place forever. Charles holds onto him afterwards, as if he knows the moment will shatter as soon as he lets go. Max runs a finger over the little moles and freckles on Charles’ back, outlining the hidden constellations waiting to be explored. These ones, he already knows by heart. ~~~~

He wakes up at the first light of dawn, with Charles still asleep in his arms. He lingers for a moment, breathing in the scent of sea breeze on Charles’ skin, and Max tries his best to memorize the feeling.

“I love you,” he whispers to a sleeping Charles, before pulling free of their embrace. “I’m sorry.”

-

Max climbs through the dirt road that winds up the hillside with a sense of mission.

He feels guilty leaving Charles alone on the beach, but he knows it must be done. He can’t force Charles to come along, but he also can’t ignore the certainty he feels, that _this_ is what will see them through to the end. The sooner Max reaches his destination, the sooner they can be reunited in the real world.

His feet slip on the treacherous gravel, small pebbles rolling downhill as he scrapes his knee on the ground. He doesn’t remember the path being this steep before. He’s barely halfway up the hill and he is already drenched in sweat.

He’s noticed that the vegetation has gotten thicker, too, wild grass giving way to bushes and trees that grow denser and denser until it feels like he’s standing in a tropical forest and he can’t see the beach anymore.

A large boulder that vaguely resembles a heart juts out of the ground where the road bends to the left, and the dry dirt road becomes a muddy path barely visible through the undergrowth.

The faint daylight filtering through the tall trees fades as Max advances, and when he looks up he sees patches of dark grey clouds. The first rumble of thunder sends a shiver down his spine.

He focuses on the tingling feeling that tells him where to go, and heads up the hill with renewed determination each time he feels the tug inside him.

It has begun to rain in earnest, fat drops splattering loudly on shiny plant leaves, leaving Max drenched in a matter of minutes. He keeps his head down to see where he’s going, his determination never wavering.

The muddy path turns right again, and Max makes his way through the dense flora to a clearing at the edge of the hill. From there he can see the entire scenery, free of the trees that blocked his path. Max can see the top of the hill—it’s not far now, and he feels the elation of knowing that this ordeal is almost over.

He turns around to take a look at the beach, and what he sees makes his blood run cold.

The storm is brewing over the bay in a dark vortex of saturated clouds. The murky grey water rises as high as mountains, angry waves raging upon the sand. The beach is just about visible on its losing fight against the drowning waves that attempt to bring it under the surface. And there, in what’s left of the seashore, Max can see the battered hull of the small boat, capsized on the sand.

 _Charles_.

He doesn’t hesitate before turning back, his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums. He needs to get to Charles.

He runs downhill as fast as he can, barely seeing where he’s going, the trees around him melting into flashes of brown and green as he zooms past them. His feet slip in the mud several times, and the more he tries to resist the pull that draws him to the top of the hill, the harder it is for him to move forward. He feels like he’s running on a reverse treadmill.

A loud thunder crashes, closer than before, and the muddy path disappears before his eyes. Max doesn’t stop, running through the vegetation. His right foot catches on a root and he falls face-first onto the ground. His knees sting where they scrape the ground, and he feels the warmth of blood trickling down his forehead. He wipes it on the hem of his shirt and forces himself to keep moving.

Guilt eats away at his guts, and all he can think about is Charles. If anything has happened to him, Max will never be able to forgive himself.

Lightning strikes a nearby tree and the scorched trunk falls with a loud bang into Max’s path, just a few feet in front of him.

_Holy fuck!_

The earth grumbles under his feet from the force of the impact and he turns left, seeking solid ground, but he slips in the mud and slides downhill until he comes to a stop near the heart-shaped boulder from earlier.

He lands on his hands and knees, and the first thing he notices as tries to catch his breath, are the two sets of footprints carved into the mud—his own, inches deep and flooding with water where he had stepped in earlier, and then another set with the unmistakable diamond pattern of Charles’ Converse.

“Charles!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

The only answer he gets is the thunderous sound of the storm.

With a faint flicker of hope in his heart, he follows the trail of footsteps. If Charles has been here, then maybe he’s okay. They lead him through an area of brown grass and fallen trees until the trail is blocked by a mucky mass of wet earth that has slid down the slope.

“Charles!” he calls again.

“Max?” A faint whimper comes from bellow, and Max feels a surge of adrenaline and relief coursing through his veins.

He slides down the path of the landslide, holding onto plants and roots for traction, until he lands on a large grassy ledge.

He finds Charles on his knees near a mound of fresh earth, his clothes covered in mud and tear tracks staining his face. Max takes his face between his hands, frantically searching his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” His thumbs brush over the fresh tears on his skin.

Charles shakes his head, stunned, and Max feels the guilt, fear, and adrenaline pour out of him all at once in one giant sob.

“You’re all right,” he whispers in relief, touching his forehead to Charles’.

“Max...” Charles looks startled, eyes unfocused and almost grey behind the glimmer of unshed tears. He runs a finger down the side of Max’s face, his expression wavering between confusion and concern. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” Max assures him, enveloping his thin frame in a tight hug. “I saw the boat. I was so scared, I had to come back for you. I thought—” he swallows, unable to say it. He takes a deep breath, and the familiar scent tickles his nose reassuringly. “You’re all right.”

“I didn’t take the boat,” Charles says. “I woke up with the storm, and you weren’t there. I knew you’d try to go to the top of the hill, so I t-tried to follow you.” Max realizes that Charles is shaking. “I-I tried to follow your tracks, but I got lost, and then there was a landslide and I fell into this place—”

Remorse rises in his throat, and he clings tighter to Charles.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m so sorry.”

Charles leans back in his arms, shaking his head with a sad smile.

“Max, I think I was always meant to end up here.”

He stares at Charles’ frazzled expression as he kneels down in the grass. Max notices the polished white stone protruding from the fresh mound dirt, and he realizes, with a sinking feeling, that they are kneeling in front of an unmarked grave.

The realization hits Max with the force of a 180mph collision.

Charles stares at the grave with newly formed tears in his eyes. He pulls away from Max, and his hand hovers over the earth, feeling its warmth without touching it.

“I have to do this,” Charles says.

Max nods, moving to stand up, but Charles catches his arm turning to him with pleading eyes.

“I can’t do it alone.”

Max wants to tell Charles that he can, that he is so much braver than he gives himself credit for. But his heart swells with the trust that Charles gives him so freely, and he can only give back.

“It’s okay,” Max assures him with a steady hand on his shoulder. “I’m right here with you.”

A chilly gust of wind rushes by, combing the tall grass. The rain has stopped, and the atmosphere smells of musty earth.

Charles touches the gravestone, and the earth swirls upward in a whirl, spinning on itself until three figures appear.

“Papa,” Charles’ voice is barely a whisper, the sound catching on his throat.

“Hello, son.” His deep, kind voice carries over the hill, blowing in the wind.

Its warm presence transcends the three dirt figures standing before them. It’s everywhere—in the rustling of the grass, in the melodic chirping of the birds in the tall trees, and in the hint of sunshine filtering through the clearing clouds. Max feels their presence in his very core, a wave of peace and comfort and unwavering love.

Charles beams, brighter than any smile Max has ever seen. A stray tear falls from the corner of his eye.

The two other figures approach him.

“Jules. Tonio. You’re here.” Charles says in the same whispering tone, as if he’s afraid his words will upset the gentle balance.

It is Jules who answers, with the same beaming grin Max remembers. He shudders, thinking of the last time he’d seen Jules, on that fateful weekend, when their paths briefly crossed on the Suzuka paddock; Max’s first F1 practice session, Jules’ very last.

“We were always here, kiddo.”

Charles shivers and Max feels the subtle shift in his own heart, the hint of regret as Charles’ eyes shift helplessly between the three figures. His own chest expands and contracts under the weight of the things Charles wants to say but doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

“I’m sorry,” is what comes out of Charles, with a sob. “I’ve failed you.”

His father smiles tenderly.

“You haven’t failed us.”

Charles shakes his head, and Max feels the same sadness as he does.

“I couldn’t do it,” Charles argues. “I couldn’t live up to your expectations. Everything was working against me. And now I’m running away.”

“Running away and moving on are two different things, Charles,” his father says. “You can’t change the things you don’t control. But you can always move on. Remember Val d’Argenton?”

He’s talking to Charles, but his beady, earthy eyes pierce right through Max.

He remembers well the famous karting incident at Val d’Argenton. By then, their rivalry was well heated. Charles had driven Max’s kart into the mud on the cool-down lap of the qualifying race, ruining his entire weekend. They both got penalties, starting the pre-final from the bottom of the grid. Max ended up retiring from the race, but Charles. Charles had been a portent to watch, taking pole and winning the final in spectacular fashion. Max remembers watching him on the podium; Charles had been so small with his too-long haircut and dark circles under his eyes, yet he looked like a giant holding a trophy that barely fit in his hands.

Charles nods.

“You didn’t give up then. And you’re not giving up now, Charlie,” says his father, softly. “It’s wrong to dwell on what is done. Moving on is a good thing.”

Charles turns to Jules, regret seeping into his voice.

“It should have been you in that Ferrari. I wanted to win it for you, Jules. I tried so hard…”

Jules just shakes his head.

“It’s time you start trying for yourself, kid.”

Max can feel the calmness settling in the air, a gentle wave of acceptance wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

“Remember all those dreams we shared?” says Anthoine. “They’re still yours for the taking. You just have to believe in yourself.”

A gust of wind stirs the particles in the air, with an auspicious whistling sound.

“It’s time,” Jules repeats. “Can you feel it? You’re almost there.”

“Not yet,” Charles pleads. “There are so many things I want to tell you. Please, don’t go.”

His father smiles, soft and heartwarming. He places a solid hand on Charles’ shoulder.

“You know where to find us, Charlie.”

The breeze carries the sound of the waves, a distant vibration of dormant strength, and the three figures scatter in the blowing wind.

Charles doesn’t say anything for a very long time.

Max just holds him close, feeling his shaky breath against his collarbone. He hopes Charles finds comfort in his arms, hopes that he knows that in this moment, everything Max is—body and soul—is there for him.

“Thank you,” Charles finally says, his voice raspy and tired.

“I didn’t do anything,” Max replies, confused.

A soft smile curls on Charles’ lips, one that Max doesn’t really deserve, but loves anyway.

“Thank you for coming back for me.”

-

They make their way downhill, the path suddenly much easier to follow, like on the day they arrived. The storm has completely subsided, and warm sunlight has replaced the menacing clouds.

“There’s one thing I don’t get,” Charles says as they walk side by side on the dirt road. “When I was trying to find you, everything seemed to work against me. I got lost, kept losing track of your footprints, so many times. It seemed like even the ground was slipping beneath my feet, pushing me back to the beach.”

The feeling resonates with Max.

“I felt that, too,” he says.

It was hard going uphill, but the second he turned back, it was almost impossible to get through unscathed. With a shiver, he thinks back to the falling tree. He hadn’t had time to think about it through the adrenaline, but it seemed like nothing short of a miracle that he had actually survived.

 _It’s a test_ , he remembers Charles words.

“And yet you still found me,” Charles says, with a sheepish smile, his hand brushing lightly over Max’s.

“We found each other,” Max replies. He supposes there is something poetic about that.

-

“That is new.”

Charles’ voice makes him stop dead in his tracks. He follows the Monegasque’s gaze to the sharp line drawn on the pavement. It seems to emit a light of its own, brilliant white against the black asphalt, right in the middle of the track.

“What do you think it means?” asks Charles.

Laughter bubbles up in his throat as relief takes over Max’s body, a pleasant dopamine rush as he contemplates the finish line.

“I think that’s the chequered flag, mate.”

He can see the wheels turning in Charles’ brain, his eyes widening the second the realization hits.

“Is it over?” asks Charles with a loud exhale.

“There’s only one way to find out.” He holds out his hand to Charles. “Wanna do this together?”

Max feels his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage as he waits for the answer, his stomach twisting with an agonizing mix of anxiety and hope, and—

Charles takes his hand, pulling him closer until they’re eye to eye, noses touching.

“Yes,” he whispers against his lips. “Together.”

Charles kisses him, briefly and tenderly, before pulling back with a grin.

“Although, since we’re technically on a race track...” Charles raises his eyebrows daringly, biting on his bottom lip.

Max matches his grin.

“I’ll race you!” they both shout in unison, dashing towards the finish line.

-

Max blinks.

The bright white light surrounding him makes him feel like he’s floating in a void, swimming in a vast milky ocean.

He blinks again, forcing his eyes to focus. The brightness begins to turn into recognizable shapes—the irregular speck of wall paint, the stream of sunlight catching on a glass window, the silver chrome steel of the simulator frame.

They’ve made it back.

He turns to the side and finds Charles mirroring his action, mouths gaping in awe.

They stare at each other for a long second. And then they laugh, a loud giggle of nervous tension as relief spreads through his body.

Charles’ arms close around his neck as he lunges at Max, crashing into his arms full force. He can hear the laughing exhale in his ear, and he hugs Charles back with all the strength he can muster.

Charles’ body feels familiar in his arms, still smelling vaguely of sea breeze and vanilla ice cream.

“We made it,” Max says, just to make sure it’s real. Charles’ warmth against his chest doesn’t let him doubt it for a second.

“Ah! Was it a long one?” The deep voice startles them, and they jump apart, facing the team boss with sheepish smiles. “You look tired,” the man comments, brown eyes piercing right through them.

“You have no idea,” Max breathes out with a throaty laugh.

The simulator chirps and rumbles, and they both leap to their feet, away from the machine. Max would be happy if he never had to step on that thing again.

They take a seat in front of the only desk in the room, a mirror image of how they sat ten minutes ago. A lifetime ago.

Charles’ hand seeks his under the table and Max lets their fingers intertwine, squeezing them lightly. He tries to put into the gentle touch all the things that he can’t say. Not in this office. Not yet.

_We’re here. It is real._

He feels the dark brown eyes on them once more, following the line where their arms disappear under the desk.

“I take it this means you’ll reconsider joining the team?” he asks Max with a knowing smirk.

Max can’t even be bothered by it.

“I will,” he says, staring into Charles’ eyes. They look a deep emerald green in the sterile light of the office. _I will join, for you. And we will be the best team the world has ever seen_.

Charles smiles back, and the warmth of their joined palms is all the answer he needs.

“Good to hear,” the boss says, handing them the customary report. “Because I’m pretty sure you’ve already set a record here.”

Max isn’t even surprised when he sees the printed bold letters. He realizes he doesn’t really care. Not once since he went into the simulation has he thought about their score. He doesn’t need its pointless validation; it’s just a meaningless number on a useless piece of paper.

He and Charles are so much more than that.

He stares in amusement as Charles’ eyebrows shoot up, and flecks of pink streak his cheeks. The Monegasque caves under the boss’s gaze and dissolves into a nervous grin, dimples on full display.

It makes Max’s heart melt on the spot.

The score might not matter to Max, but he’ll frame the bloody piece of paper and hang it on the wall if it makes Charles smile like that.

He snatches it from the boss’s hand, careful not to crumple the thin surface. He takes one last look at it and smiles.

 ** _Compatibility score: 99.8%_**.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. 
> 
> This started out as a crazy idea for a short story and got out of hand, but is now complete :) Thanks for putting up with my weird fic, for leaving comments and kudos and giving me feedback. i love you all <3
> 
> [ tumblr](https://badboy-george.tumblr.com/)


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